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Mark shut his eyes thankful for a few moments of quiet and rested his head in his hands. One more dowager or debutante tried to corner him then he was going to come down with a sudden case of the 12 hour flu and International relations could go hang. At least none of his admirers were flagrant enough to follow him into the men's bathroom. Hiding in a cubicle at his own party was hardly the correct behaviour for a British Ambassador but Mark felt that even he could be permitted to duck out for a few minutes.
Maybe it was fear that someone had indeed followed him that made him lift his feet above the height of the gap at the bottom of the door, or maybe it was unreasonable panic that Nicholas was coming to drag him back to the benefit already when he just needed a few more minutes. But having done so he could hardly put them back down without looking even more ridiculous. At least until the interloper had taken care of their business and departed.
Not one but two sets of feet sounded. There was silence for a moment and then the omph of a body hitting the wall. Mark was about to jump up and intervene when his brain registered that the continuing noises were not those of a fight or, indeed, anything Mark wanted to interrupt.
"Jesus," a voice said, slurred by passion. "I've been wanting to do that all evening."
Mark felt his throat catch - he knew that voice. Christopher Style; Under-secretary of Defense. If Nicholas were the one trapped in the toilet cubicle, not that he would ever let himself get in such a position, he would be taking damn notes to send to Whitehall and trying to get a look at whoever Styles was with, Mark thought grumpily. Part of him wanted to just go out there and give them the surprise of their lives. The more sensible part just felt horribly embarrassed and desperately hoped that would be the end of it and he could escape.
He swore silently as the noises not only continued but got closer, making their way into, worst luck, the cubicle next to his. He heard the lock click and debated making a break for it. A groaned 'please' froze him before he could move. Who knew that Styles could sound like that. Mark could feel himself blushing. The sound of two zips was almost lost under the low chuckle and renewed sounds of mutual assault.
The hiss of material against skin and a black pool of material spilled across the bathroom floor, a ripple of fabric and a length of belt snaking under the gap into his cubicle. The sound of plastic rustling, of latex against skin and skin against skin.
Mark could feel his heartbeat speed up. It wasn't like he didn't know what was going on, he just hadn't expected it to sound so enthusiastic and it was beginning to get to him in a way he hadn't expected. Desire was leaking through the wooden partition, invisible and mesmerising. Mark's cock was hard in his suit, negotiating for attention.
"Come on, do it" Styles again, demanding.
Intellectually Mark knew that the instruction wasn't aimed at him; the two men, and he was pretty sure it was two men, didn't even know he was there. After hours playing the perfect host and now, listening to someone who was obviously having a much better evening than he was, Mark found that intellect didn't always count for much. The sound of his own fly being undone was covered by the satisfied twinned moan of both men.
Mark knew he would probably be horrified at his own action later, much later, when the feel of his cock in his hand wasn't the best piece of flesh he had pressed that evening and the panting, encouraging gasps in his ear had stopped driving his own desperate movements. No time for finesse or delay, the choice of quick and rough had been made for him by the men he was having sex with... beside... God! The wood shivered between him and them, the tempo on both sides and all three of them raced time and sanity for completion.
Styles babbled slightly but his partner was silent except for low grunts of effort, barely discernible. It made Mark curious, wondering if the man was naturally quiet or whether it was a concession to the circumstances. He tuned Style's out, concentrating on the other whose quiet pants were an echo and reflection of his own. He did not know if he was casting himself as the silent man or with him but as he fucked his hand he squeezed his fingers tight and reveled in the harsh masculinity of the action.
Mark was so lost in the moment that he nearly forgot the situation he was in. Memory came back with the rush towards orgasm and he grasped at the loo roll, desperate to make sure his suit remain pristine. From the sounds that accompanied the moment, his frantic scrabbling had been covered up by the drum roll of thrusts that heralded the crash of completion from his unlooked for companions.
He fought to get his breath back to normal. A feeling that teetered somewhere between laughter and tears caught him and he sat there, dick out, wad of semen-impregnated toilet paper in his hand and two relative, male, strangers whose clandestine sexual encounter he had just invited himself to become part of in the next cubical. That was his political career over right there is he was discovered.
After the shared exertion the restroom seemed oppressively quiet, as if any moment the door would be kicked inward and he would be discovered. Even the rustle and slither of cloth as Styles and his lover rearranged themselves seemed subdued. Mark's heart stopped for a moment as hands appeared, collecting up the abandoned trousers but the only result was the soft rasp of a zip and the clap of belt leather being secured.
One more kiss, and Mark imagined it was the long and deep, unspoken sorry of goodbye and then the snick of a lock. One set of feet walking away. The angry hiss of a tap overwhelmed by the rumble of a toilet being flushed and then the other set of steps, joining its friend.
"I'd better get back," Styles acknowledged his companion as the faucet was turned off. "We'll probably be leaving soon. You better go and find where your Ambassador's gotten to..."
What the reply was Mark didn't hear as the door cut off the conversation. He waited a minute before risking his own departure while the plumping gurgled around him in amusement. He submitted to his gentle reprimand from Jennifer and less diplomatic 'where the fuck have you been' from Phil with the grace of a sinner given an unexpected reprieve. Only Nicholas didn't comment, just gave him a crooked smile that remained, cheshire cat like, in Mark's mind long after the rest of him had left.